


Non-Regulation Use

by coffeebuddha



Category: Psych
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M, Police Baton, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick strains ineffectually against the handcuffs tethering him to the headboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non-Regulation Use

**Author's Note:**

  * For [topetine](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=topetine).



Nick strains ineffectually against the handcuffs tethering him to the headboard, the hard, smooth metal already slick with his sweat. Carlton makes a short, tsking sound somewhere behind him, and Nick knows that if he turned his head enough to look over his shoulder, he'd see that insufferable little smirk on the other man's face. He flushes--well, flushes _more--_ the hot, damp pillow under his cheek useless at cooling the heat. Sweat soaked sheets, sheets that had been perfectly crisp just an hour earlier, stick to his chest and bunch around his knees when he tries to force them wider. Carlton's fingers tighten on his hip, keeping him up. It's not exactly a warning, although there's nothing gentle about it either. If the tightening's some kind of message, then that message is a memo--efficient and impersonal. There's probably some deeper meaning to be drawn from that, but Nick'll be damned if he's going to start thinking about it right now with his bare ass sticking up in the air and over six feet of intense, repressed cadet kneeling behind him.

The end of the baton presses against his entrance, not enough to penetrate, but enough that Nick's mouth falls open on a shuddering gasp and he rocks back as much as Carlton's restraining hand will allow. He's hard and aching, desperate for even the friction of the loose, crumpled sheets against his cock, but Carlton's unrelenting. He squirms, a whimper slipping out before he can catch it, but Carlton only lets him get close enough to feel an unsatisfying whisper of cotton against his hypersensitive skin before he's hauling him back up, and all he gets for his attempts is a sharp bite of teeth on the upper swell of his ass. It's sweet, calculated torture, probably at least in part because he scored better than Carlton on their practical exam earlier today. Nick would complain--the words are already half formed on his lips--but then, with only a short exhalation against Nick's skin as a warning, there's a hot, wet tongue tracing around the edge of the baton, teasing at his hole.

He's already prepared, wide and slick and ready, and Carlton pushes the baton in torturously slowly, his tongue laving at hot, stretched skin. The burn is slow and perfect, whiting out his vision. There's a whining creak--the handcuffs are still intact, but Carlton's old, cheap metal headboard will probably never be quite the same--and his whimpers turn into a long, high keen. Nick's body shakes, a fine tremor that Carlton can't possibly miss, and Carlton smooths his free hand up the line of Nick's back, fingers bumping over vertebrae, damp skin sliding easily over damp skin, then rakes blunt nails back down. Nick arches under his touch, pushing his hips back to take more of the baton. He can't hear Carlton's chuckle over the harsh pants of his own breathing, but he can feel the vibration of it and the short puffs of air across sensitive skin that make him gasp.

After an eternity, Carlton finally pulls back on the baton, nearly pulls it all the way out, then pushes it back in. And it's official. He hates Carlton Lassiter. _Hates_ the man, because no matter how Nick twists or rocks underneath his ministrations, he keeps his pace slow and unhurried. Fucking _leisurely_. Every exhale is a choked off sob that only seems to encourage Carlton. He presses his face into the pillow, trying to muffle them, but Carlton moves, all hard heat along the length of Nick's back, and hooks an arm under his chest, pulling him up. He grabs onto the headboard, but Carlton still takes most of his weight, keeping him from slumping back down. His head hangs loosely--too much effort to try and keep it up--and Carlton mouths sloppy, open mouthed kisses across the back of his neck and shoulders, completely at odds with his even, deliberate thrusts of the baton.

His arousal is heavy and obvious on Nick's backside, but the movement of his hips is short and shallow against him, even when Nick uses the headboard for leverage to push back against him and grind down. Carlton growls into the curve of his neck, low and fierce, and Nick gives in and lets him take control and slowly, methodically break him apart.


End file.
